Captive

by A. D. Robertson

  “You’ve always been too hard on yourself.” Seamus looked away and kicked at the sand. “Just because others will try to make choices for you, it doesn’t mean you can’t ever make your own.”

  “Except when it comes to Bosque,” Tristan said quietly. “If he gives me orders about Sarah . . .”

  “Don’t borrow trouble before it’s on your doorstep,” Seamus told him. “If you want the girl, then win her. If she’s come around to your way of thinking by the time Lord Mar returns, you’ll have a good bargaining chip to use.”

  Tristan nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, that’s true.”

  “Wolves don’t lie.” Seamus growled, but it was a playful sound. “If you don’t mind, I’d be grateful for your return to the castle. Though there’s no need to run that beast of yours into the ground this time.”

  “I’ll keep it to a canter.” Tristan smiled ruefully. “Ares and I are both exhausted from the run out here.”

  “And I’ll try to keep enough distance so your horse doesn’t spook,” Seamus said. He walked off the beach, not shifting forms until he was half hidden by darkness.

  Tristan’s mind still churned with ideas, their source no longer fear but possibility, as he gently tugged on the reins and beckoned Ares to approach. Ares remained a bit skittish after Seamus’s departure, but stopped prancing long enough for Tristan to mount. He turned the stallion away from the shore and set off at an easy, rolling gait toward Castle Tierney. Toward a different sort of challenge from the one he’d first set out to overcome.

  12

  SARAH DISMISSED THE idea of sleep as she climbed the staircase to the upper floor of the castle. Her body remained taut even though it had been nearly an hour since Tristan’s abrupt departure. She hadn’t waited for anyone to collect her from the dining room.

  When she reached the top floor, Sarah paused, weighing her options. She could return to her room. Given that dinner had ended so suddenly, Sarah wouldn’t have been at all surprised to find Moira still awake. Perhaps Sarah could share a cup of tea with the girl and learn more about how she came to serve at Castle Tierney.

  Sarah quickly abandoned that idea. As much as such a conversation would be useful, Sarah knew she was far too distracted to pursue it. Instead, she went to the library—for within the book-filled rooms lay the most likely salve for her mind’s current ailment: the solution to Tristan’s first challenge.

  She stood at the door for a moment, letting the tips of her fingers rest against the carved wood. Tristan would likely be inside. Since he’d told Sarah that the study was his favorite place in the castle, it only made sense that he’d seek refuge there.

  Does that make me cruel for not giving him respite? He obviously wanted to get away from me.

  Sarah quickly curbed that thought, reminding herself that Tristan’s feelings were no concern of hers. She also ignored the nagging unhappiness that he seemed so desperate to part ways. Resolved, she opened the door, ignoring the sudden uptick of her pulse and hating the twinge of disappointment she felt upon finding she had the spacious rooms to herself.

  After she’d taken a leisurely turn through both rooms, Sarah paused to gaze at the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Tristan had designed the task to either be impossible or to nudge her a bit closer to the edge of insanity. Thinking about how ridiculous the challenge was could only work against her, so Sarah decided to bury any thoughts of the end goal. Instead she tried to start by browsing the shelves, hoping she would at least glean a bit of enjoyment from exploring the library.

  The books at least appeared to be shelved according to subject, then alphabetized by author, giving Sarah the chance to do a quick survey of the whole library to gain a sense of the types of books Tristan had collected. She quickly noted a predominance of philosophy, with a particular strength in the works of medieval and early modern scholars. Perusing the volumes further, Sarah discovered a large section of the library dedicated to cartography. She found atlases from the ancient world and nautical charts from the Age of Exploration. Near the cartographic collection were volumes on art history, then a variety of books focused on natural history—including an original edition of John James Audubon’s The Birds of America.

  Next came history, and Tristan’s interest in the subject appeared wide-ranging. Texts from the nineteenth century appeared, as well as the latest publications from renowned university presses. The books covered every era and every corner of the globe. Though Sarah could appreciate the depth and breadth of the collection, she had a hard time imagining anyone’s favorite book being a history text.

  When she came upon her first shelf of fiction, Sarah felt a surge of anticipation. Surely Tristan’s favorite book would be a novel—though she noted several shelves filled with poetry, particularly the works of Irish poets, that gave her pause. Given that the castle’s chambers were named after figures from Irish mythology, perhaps Tristan had an affinity for the literature of his homeland.

  Once she had a vague sense of the library’s holdings, Sarah puzzled over her next step. Should she narrow options by title, making her best guess about what Tristan would be drawn to in a narrative?

  She scanned some of the possibilities: a political thriller à la John le Carré, an Agatha Christie murder mystery, a saga like Beowulf, or perhaps a classic of Irish literature—something from James Joyce’s oeuvre.

  Sarah ground her teeth in frustration. Guessing which of these books was Tristan’s favorite made her feel like she was groping around helplessly in a pitch-black room. She peered more closely at some of the book spines. Maybe she could discern what books had the most wear, and thus had likely been read the most times.

  It didn’t take long for Sarah to dismiss that strategy. The age of the books varied too widely, making it nearly impossible to differentiate between books that had been taken from the shelves and read frequently and those that were simply, well, old. Her head began to ache.

  Though Sarah told herself she hadn’t given up yet, she decided to take a break. Returning to the part of the library that Tristan used as a study, Sarah dropped into a leather club chair. Exhaustion spread through her limbs, but her mind remained far too frazzled for Sarah to believe she’d be able to sleep. Her gaze wandered to the polished wooden bar near the fireplace.

  Maybe a nightcap would help.

  Sarah poured herself a brandy from one of several crystal decanters on the bar. She settled against the soft leather of the chair and sipped her drink. After a few swallows, Sarah roused herself for another stab at finding Tristan’s favorite book. She set the glass on the accent table beside the chair . . . and noticed the book that had been left there.

  Like so many of the other volumes in Tristan’s collection, this book was old and likely of great value. Sarah flipped the pages until she reached the title page: The Book of a Thousand Nights and a Night, published in 1885.

  Sarah spent several minutes gazing at the title. It couldn’t be that simple, could it? She recalled one of her favorite short stories by Edgar Allan Poe, “The Purloined Letter,” in which the detective solved the crime by pointing out to his more hapless peers that the best means for hiding something was to leave it in plain sight.

  Had Tristan pulled this book from the shelves, leaving it in the open for Sarah to find? Was this yet another means for him to toy with her?

  Her gut told her this wasn’t the right book; its presence was too precious for serendipity. But finding it nudged her thoughts in a new direction.

  Why would Tristan shelve his most-loved book alongside all the others? A favorite book was one returned to again and again. It belonged near the reader, not hidden within the library stacks.

  Sarah pushed herself up from the chair and strode out of the library. When she reached Tristan’s bedroom door, she paused. Steeling herself, Sarah lifted her hand and rapped sharply on the door.

  No answer.


  She knocked again and was met with silence once more. Tentatively, she reached for the doorknob and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  He rules this castle and lives here alone, Sarah reminded herself. Why would he need to lock his door? Her arrival obviously hadn’t rattled his sense of security one bit.

  Tristan’s bedroom had been turned down in anticipation of his arrival. The chamber was softly illuminated by a bedside lamp and well-banked fire. Ignoring her sudden urge to snoop through Tristan’s things, Sarah crossed quickly to the bedside table.

  She’d opened its single drawer only a crack when the sound of the door opening turned her around.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Tristan stood in the doorway, his tall figure framed by the brighter light of the hallway. His crumpled coat and vest hung from the crook of his arm. Tossing both aside, he crossed the room in a few long strides and grabbed Sarah’s wrists.

  Sarah lifted her chin, defiant. “Solving your riddle.”

  He didn’t fight her when she pulled her right arm free. Reaching for the drawer, she opened it and drew out the book that rested within, just as she’d hoped—though she was surprised at how small and light the book was; she’d been expecting a much stouter novel.

  Tristan didn’t let Sarah go; instead, he drew her closer. “Well played.”

  Sarah’s nose crinkled up. He smelled of sweat and hay—not an unpleasant scent, but also not one she’d expected.

  “I went for a ride.” Tristan laughed softly at her scrunched face.

  “Do you often go riding in the middle of the night?” Sarah asked. Tristan’s grip on her wrist loosened, but Sarah didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.

  “I try not to make a habit of it,” Tristan answered. “I apologize for leaving dinner so abruptly.”

  “No worries.” Sarah smiled. “It gave me a chance to visit the library, and while it’s a lovely collection, no one keeps their favorite book so far out of reach.”

  Tristan returned her smile. His fingers moved along the inside of her wrist. It was a whisper of a caress, but Sarah had to fight off a thrilling shiver from that light touch.

  What the hell? She quickly raised the book between them to distract herself.

  “So what is the winning book?” She glanced at the cover. “Seriously?”

  “What’s wrong with my book?” Tristan asked, sounding rather injured.

  “Nothing,” Sarah told him, still eyeing the book with disbelief. “It’s just . . . unexpected. The Tale of Peter Rabbit?”

  “That was a gift on my fourth birthday—it was the first book I read on my own,” Tristan said, still defensive. “And if you look again, you’ll find there’s another book in the drawer.”

  With her free hand Sarah reached into the drawer and drew out a much thicker book. “The Count of Monte Cristo. Why these two?”

  Tristan released her arm and took a step back. “You found the book—or rather, books. Congratulations. You don’t have to answer any of my questions tonight, but this challenge is done.”

  “Hang on.” Sarah frowned. “I won this round. Answer my question.”

  “No.” Tristan squared his shoulders.

  Sarah knew he was attempting to intimidate her, but she refused to back down. “You want me to keep playing this game of yours, then you need to give me an incentive. You’ve made it clear that my freedom isn’t in play.”

  “I’ve promised not to resort to less pleasant modes of interrogation,” Tristan countered, though she noted the way his gaze shifted away from her, uneasy.

  “Am I going to stay here, then, in your castle, and be subjected constantly to one-sided conversations?” Sarah glared at him. “You asked me to find your favorite book. I did. Now you won’t tell me how it is that Beatrix Potter and Alexandre Dumas won that honor?”

  Tristan’s jaw clenched, but Sarah’s gaze was unrelenting. “Why are they your favorites?”

  “Because they both manage to escape.” When Sarah didn’t say anything, Tristan added, “I mean Peter and Edmond.”

  “I know who you mean,” Sarah said quietly.

  They both manage to escape.

  Tristan had uttered the words as if they were a terrible confession. Sarah considered his uneasy stance, the way he no longer could meet her eyes.

  “Thank you,” Sarah murmured. “Since I’m the intruder here, I should bid you good night.”

  Tristan nodded but kept his gaze averted. Sarah sidled past him and moved quietly toward the door.

  “Sarah.”

  She half-turned, looking at Tristan.

  “Tell me what your favorite book is.”

  “I will,” Sarah answered. “When you win.”

  13

  SARAH CRAWLED INTO bed and tried to recall how much she’d enjoyed Jeremy’s touch. His skilled hands had never failed to make her crave more of him. His soft, teasing kisses had always left her restless with desire.

  And the night before she’d come on this crazy mission, Sarah had fully intended to fuck the hell out of Jeremy. She hadn’t stopped him because she’d changed her mind about wanting to sleep with him, knowing it would not only be their first time, but Sarah’s first time altogether.

  I love you, Sarah.

  Even now, the memory of Jeremy whispering those words tossed an icy bucket of water on any embers of lust that Sarah had managed to keep smoldering.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Jeremy’s words had to be exactly what a person should want to hear from a lover, particularly when giving up one’s virginity to the person who’s said it.

  But not when you don’t love them back.

  She’d been in bed less than five minutes, but Sarah threw back the covers and jumped up. She was much too restless to sleep. Restless and frustrated.

  After weeks of messing around with Jeremy, feeling comfortable with the idea that their casual relationship would eventually develop into something more, Sarah had utterly freaked when Jeremy tried to make that happen.

  But that wasn’t the worst of it. She’d barely begun her stay at Castle Tierney and . . .

  No, not “stay.” Sarah interrupted her own line of thought to correct herself. I’m a prisoner here.

  And yet she couldn’t get Tristan out of her mind. He’d barely touched her, and she was ready to tackle him in the hall and tear his clothes off. Sarah didn’t think she’d care that much if the Guardians, Lana, and Owen all saw her do it. Hell, maybe she’d even get off on that.

  Again, Sarah mentally smacked herself. What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Leaving her silk chemise in a crumpled heap beside the bed, Sarah dressed and quietly left her room. If Jeremy couldn’t force Tristan out of her mind, maybe the mission could. It was the only reason she was still there, after all.

  Yeah. Keep telling yourself that.

  Sarah batted away the thought and moved quietly down the hall, intent on searching the castle until she found something that would reveal why its secrecy remained so important to the Keepers.

  She passed by the study, dismissing it as a potential target of her hunt. After winning the first challenge, Sarah felt confident that whatever was hidden behind these stone walls wasn’t in the study.

  Knowing she wouldn’t be able to finish the search in a single night, Sarah settled on a divide-and-conquer approach. She crept down the stairs until she reached the bowels of the castle. It seemed unlikely that the baths would be the hiding place of any great secrets, but Sarah thought it just as unlikely that a stone fortress would relegate its deepest recesses to bathing facilities alone.

  Sarah passed by the doors to the pristine swimming pool and steaming baths, sparing only a cursory glance at the whimsical yet disturbing depiction of sea life that ranged from sea horses to merm
aids to the monstrous kraken. Walking the length of the wall that sealed the baths off from the open space at the bottom of the stairs, Sarah soon ran into a dead end. She frowned and turned in a slow circle to survey the seemingly empty chamber that served as an entryway to the baths.

  At first glance it looked as though the plain stone walls had been deemed serviceable enough and left in their original state, while all decorative art and design had been allocated to the baths. Sarah slowly followed the perimeter of the room, eyeing the walls as she walked. After one pass, she still saw nothing out of order.

  Despite a spike of irritation at coming up empty-handed, Sarah forced herself to make a second survey of the blank walls. Without tapestries or paintings to cover them, the stone walls struck her as bleak. She shivered, thinking of how oppressive the structure would be if none of the castle bore colorful coverings to hide its true nature.

  It’s all a disguise, isn’t it? Sarah ran her fingers along the rough stones. Opulence designed to hide the brutish reality of this place.

  Sarah had nearly completed her second turn around the chamber when her fingers slipped into a crevice between two stones. Startled, she snatched her fingers back as if something in the small space might have bitten them off had she not moved quickly enough.

  The dark pocket in the wall was barely noticeable, particularly where it was—at shoulder height rather than in a direct line of sight, and half-hidden in the shadow of the rising staircase that was built into that particular wall. Though her stomach clenched, Sarah forced herself to reach back into the crevice. She flinched when her fingers met something cold. Once she’d overpowered the instinct to recoil, Sarah felt around the object.

  It was metal. A lever?

  The pocket in the stone was so small, Sarah could only twist her hand to curl one finger around it. But one finger was enough; she pulled the lever.

  The grinding of stones against the floor made Sarah jump back. The wall had retreated beneath the staircase, revealing a shadowed opening just large enough for a person to fit through. Sarah’s pulse drummed in her veins, too fast and loud for her liking, but she ducked into the gap.